Writing Zen

There is a zen saying:

No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place.

To me this means that all the ups and downs happen precisely as they are meant to.

It's no secret my life has been a bumpy ride at times. Isn't everyone's? Having Crohn's disease has been a pain-filled journey that sometimes felt unbearable. I've faced down pain day in and day out. But I've never felt that whole "why me" thing because there is no answer to why me. If I ask that about pain, then I should ask it about all the great stuff--like four terrific kids. Or a career I love. Or a best friend who makes the world a brighter place. Or the comraderie of my writers' group. Or the beauty of my garden. So I don't ask. I just assume my snowflake lands where it's supposed to.

The same thing holds for writing.

Every rejection, hopefully, teaches us something, whether it's humility or craft, or patience. The couple of times I have run into truly treacherous people in this biz has taught me to watch my back. The great people I have met have taught me a lot of about writing and craft. The pain in my life has taught me to write about pain. Every beautiful thing I have seen, every ugly thing . . . has been stored as an image in my brain, and I can someday choose to use the images in a book.

It's all how it's supposed to be. And learning to, as I say to my adorable nieces, "roll with it" means I'm cool with what happens. Doesn't mean I don't try harder, work more passionately, fight for it more fiercely. I just always think, in the end, the snowflake falls where it's supposed to.

Thoughts?

Collective Soul

This blog post is a continuation of yesterday's post. And if you read the comments from yesterday's post, it's even more linked.

Yesterday, I blogged about symbolism, and I had intended to blog today about the collective unconcious. And then lo and behold, Ewoh, yet again brought insight to the table in the comments section--and raised the issue of the collective unconscious. So we're onto something, I think.

You see, some writers say they don't consciously use symbolism. I do. But I also sometimes after the fact see some fairly evocative imagery and symbolism that wasn't there when I was writing--at least not consciously.

For example . . . When I wrote Invisible Girl, I had a lot of symbolism of East and West. Buddhism and Catholicism. But when I was done, the book was chosen for the MIRA Reader's Ring book club. It got a special stamp on the cover denoting it, and book club questions were created for it. I wrote most of the book club questions, but my editor ALSO wrote a few--and one of hers was about the water imagery. Water imagery? I hadn't intended it . . . and yet, when I looked over the manuscript again, water imagery was everywhere.

The collective unconscious was at work. According to Wikipedia, the collective unconscious is:

"a reservoir of the experiences of our species"

Which is pretty apt. Case in point . . . when my son was two, he was just getting into forming sentences and putting more complex thoughts together. I took him for a walk one night in his stroller and the full moon was out. At the time we lived in South Florida--so the sky was clear, and no trees blocked the view--we had only palm trees around us. So I pointed at the moon and said, "Do you know what that is?"

And he leaned back, his bare feet lazily dangling over the stoller's side, a sippy cup in his hand, yawning, in his Winne the Pooh pajamas. And he said, "Yeah. That's God."

And at that moment, I was convinced Jung was right. How else to explain this amazing leap or transition in a toddler?

So I tend to think we as a species have a collective soul as well as individual ones.

Thoughts? Does this now alter your thoughts on symbolism? Confirm your existing beliefs?

Peace,
E

A Conversation on Symbolism

My oldest daughter is 17. She thinks her English teacher is full of it when she says there is symbolism in a book.

"Do writers really think of that stuff when they're writing? You're a writer."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. So you should know. Do they?"

"Yes."

"So you mean when you set out to write a book, you really think of symbolism? Give me a break."

"Yes, we do."

"I think English teachers just overanalyze. They have nothing better to do."

"No. Writers really do think about symbolism."

"Fine. What's some symbolism in one of your books that I've read?"

"Well, the garden in Spanish Disco represents Eden, and Maria is Aphrodite."

"WHAT?!?!"

"And Tom is the Christ figure in The Roofer."

"But Tom was an alcoholic."

"But not until after he made the ultimate sacrifice. He was the perfect boy. Think about it. He was perfect, without guile. He was a good boy. Think about it . . . go back and read it."

"Give me another example."

"You just have to pay attention in English class."

"I still think you're full of crap."

"Thanks. Now go clean your room."

So . . . thoughts? How do you weave symbolism in your work?

The Formula for Writing Success

If E = MC2, what is the formula for writing a successful novel? Something that will land you an agent, a book deal, a best-seller.

If you blog hop long enough, you will see writers who say the formula is actually very simple--sort of like, "take one three-dimensional fascinating character, add one great hook/plot, make every page a true page-turner . . . and voila."

Which in the end is rather like all those self-help gurus who say nonsense like, "You have to learn to love yourself before you can love others." Believe me, there is great wisdom in that. It's quite true. I have loved men who didn't love themselves and the results were train wrecks. BUT, saying something like that, spouting it, is useless. Because what people REALLY need to know is how do you love yourself? What does loving yourself look like, feel like? How can a person mirror it? Telling someone the "end result" doesn't get them from point A to point B in the formula.

Same with writing.

As an editor, I remember editing an 800+-page book by a household-name author. And I could barely force myself to read it. Even though I was getting PAID to read it. It was torture. Because what SHE thought was a compelling, marvelous, romantic figure, someone three-dimensional and so on, I thought was a great, big bore.

What she thought was a compelling plot . . . seemed so far-fetched that I started to laugh--like those disaster flicks in the 70s. Remember them? They were campy. That's how this plot was.

There are some people, to be honest, that you can hand a so-called "formula" to, break it down into the pieces, and put it together again, and it won't amount to a great book.

There is an X-factor. Something that you can't quite put your finger on but you know it when you see it. I know another multi-published author who has had maybe two dozen e-books published and fifteen years later in her writing career (she was getting lots of rejections over the years, until she managed to land with a now-defunct e-publisher) I still bang my head against my desk when I read her books. She has taken a formula and made it formulaic. I almost know, before I read it, that the hero's eyes are going to "flash in anger" and the heroine is going to notice his hunky chest. And she cannot figure out why she can't get an agent. For some people, the formula just will never translate.

In the end, hone your craft, try to do all the things every writing coach will tell you to do. But in the end, there is just an element of magic. And no one can give you the formula for that. There has to be heart and passion. You have to FEEL it.

Thoughts? Do you think there is a secret formula?

Stealing Home

My father has a couple of expressions.

A day without larceny is like a day without sunshine.

And . . .

If you aren't cheating, you aren't trying hard enough.

Not bad expressions. Granted, they are not, "Do unto others," or anything from the Bible--Dad's an atheist. It's not Socrates, "An unexamined life is is not worth living." They're not run-of-the-mill "dad-like" expressions. I don't know . . . what do dads usually tell you? You see, I was well into college, my parents were visiting, and stealing everything in the Hyatt that wasn't nailed down--there are REASONS hotels nail things down. My father is one of them. I had plants from their lobby in my college apartment. Sugar bowls. Creamers. Plates. Silverware. Towels. I STILL have some Hyatt washcloths, but since it was twenty years ago, I can admit this now that the statute of limitations is over. Anyway, I was well into college and meeting my friends' dads who were bankers and so on . . . and they were most definitely not like my dad. And I was, for the first time, REALLY glad my dad was my dad. Life was not boring. In short, Grand Theft Hyatt taught me a greater appreciation of my father. I suddenly "got" that I had a unique perspective on the world, and I should nurture it rather than ever conform.

Which leads me to the point of this blog. I must thank Ewoh, who visits here, for reminding me of something very elemental, but good to keep in mind. I write MY story.

You see, I admire, very much, Neil Gaiman. The man is a genius. But he writes HIS story. Whatever that is and however it gets filtered on the page. And I can't write Neil Gaiman's story, any more than he can write mine. My story is unique, and the experiences that made me who I am were all necessary and vital and they brought me HERE as a writer to THIS moment in time. And I have MY story to write.

Some people may look askance at my Hyatt washcloths. My sugar bowls. I no longer commit petty theft--along the way I became a Buddhist and there's this karma thing. But it was MY journey and, man, I wouldn't trade a single bit of it. I love my dad and mom with all my being. And I wouldn't trade a minute of it. I have my story to tell. You have yours. Remembering that keeps each of us from envy. We can admire someone else's work. But in the end . . . you've got to write your story. From your unique set of experiences.

Thoughts?

And if the CEO of Hyatt calls, I will deny ALL of this.

Peace,
E

Exhaling . . .

The world is in a frenzy over the final chapter of Harry Potter, one of the most beloved series ever written. The books have captivated adults and children alike. And the movies have been well-done, too.

I have to confess that I never got on the Harry bandwagon. Love the books, love the movies. It's just as the series was published, I was having four kids . . . so . . . somehow, I never seemed to have the time to curl up and read all the volumes.

But I definitely relate to the excitement. I fell in love with R.F. Delderfield's A Horseman Riding By trilogy when I was in fourth grade. I devoured the books. I remember them as being thick books. I just looked them up at Amazon. 672 pages in one book. Yup, nice and thick.

And I remember, I would finish one--and know another was waiting. As I cracked open the book, I would exhale. It was SO exciting, and yet so wonderful to return to the characters I adored. I got lost in the books.

After I finished those books, I was devastated. I think I honestly cried. It took me a while to find a book I liked as much. It was as if every book I read afterwards, I would compare to the trilogy--and never like as much. Then I read Rule Britannia by Daphne Du Maurier (not in print anymore). I was relieved to find a book I loved as much as my beloved trilogy.

Since then, I have loved other books. But I don't know that I have ever duplicated the feelings of the trilogy. I have never re-read them . . . mostly because I don't know that I would feel the same way. I like preserving them in my mind the way I saw the books in 4th grade.

Anyone else have a beloved series like Harry Potter? Remember the feelings? STILL react that way?

Naked Hot Dogs

When I was a kid, my favorite thing in the world when I visited my grandmother was putting on an apron, standing on a stool, and helping her bake from scratch. My grandmother was an amazing cook--just good homemade food--and we made donuts from scratch, something called "war cake" (family tradition), and assorted other really wonderful dishes and baked goods.

Any of my friends reading this are now howling, tears streaming down their faces. Why? Because I don't cook. As in Do Not Cook Ever. I don't boil water. I don't make mac 'n' cheese out of a blue cardboard box. I don't make grilled cheese sandwiches. Now, my significant other was a chef for 20 years, give or take, so that's part of it. He makes it look effortless. It's never from a recipe. We have one of those professional Belgian waffle makers. No Eggo's for my kids. Fresh Belgian waffles in the a.m. with strawberries and freshly whipped cream. My kids don't request steak for dinner. They request steak with a white wine butter sauce and sauteed mushrooms. You get the idea.

Now, my bestest friend Pammie will tell you on occasion I TRY to cook. After all, I have those memories of Grandma. "Cooking" is a relative term, though. For me, cooking is whatever frozen morsels can be put on a cookie tray and cooked at 400 degrees until done. But even THAT I managed to screw up. One time, I had Pammie over and made those little cocktail franks wrapped in dough. Well, I did SOMETHING wrong. I mean, I ASSUMED (fatal assumption) you slapped said hot dogs on a tray and cooked 'em at 400 degrees and voila. But someone didn't tell the hot dogs that. I pulled out the tray and EVERY SINGLE little cocktail frank had UNROLLED. So basically, I had 24 flat biscuits and 24 unwrapped hot dogs. All of them fairly "cajun style."

But I am not afraid to try.

I'm taking a glass-cutting and slumping class at a local art studio (will post pictures when I make something). I took up knitting. I do this badly. That's OK . . . I LOVE it. I love that it uses a different side of my brain. I love making things for people I love. Significant Other and I went out for cocktails with two friends the other night and when the other husband said, "Oh, you knit? Can you make me a scarf?" I leaped at the chance! I knit things for my nanny's daughter. I knit scarves for a charity project. Again, BADLY. But I like doing it.

Ceramics? Sure, I'll try it. Tai Chi--been there, done that. Yoga. Anything . . . This week, I painted a mirror with gilded edges for my living room.

And I realized something . . . My parents never, ever, ever said to me, "You can't do that." They never said you won't ever be a writer. You won't ever make it doing this or that. They encouraged BIG dreams--always with a "why not"? When my seventeen-year-old (thankfully!) says she won't marry until she's thirty because she wants to travel around the world playing her violin, and says, "I want to see EVERYTHING." She means EVERYTHING. Why not?

When my nine-year-old says she's going to tour as a drummer while designing clothes for the band (and I cannot BEGIN to tell you, now that she's getting pretty good, how LOUD drums are--I mean LOUD, and this house carries that noise until my teeth rattle!!!)--why not?

I look at people stuck in very narrow visions of what a wife should be, a mother should be, a career should be. I look at people afraid to try. Not me.

And so I have my parents to thank. Truly. I am not afraid to try . . . and that's a good thing.

To anyone reading this--and you know who you are because some of you email me off the blog--who dream of writing a novel . . . do it. Don't be afraid. Try it!

You just might love it. And even if you end up with something akin to a bunch of unrolled naked hot dogs . . . that's OK, too. You will have learned something.

Thoughts? What have you tried?

Pink Hair

I am on my way to go get pink hair.

Actually, more red or plum or magenta. Who the hell knows? Maybe blue.

Because it's only hair and I am bored. We'll see what I get. If I am motivated, I will take a picture and post it.

Which leads me to one of this blog's few forays into RWA, into the "politics" of being a writer.

I don't attend conventions. Some of it has to do with a morbid fear of flying. But as Buddhism made me more comfortable with death . . . I am kind of cool with flying. Some of it has to do with four kids. Who the HELL in their right mind will watch all four? If you are thinking that perhaps my significant other would--of COURSE he would. But here's the thing. My kids are TRUANT when he does. As in . . . I am in meetings with my editors in NYC and my cell rings, and I usually do not answer, but I am a mom of four traveling, and I know my editors well, so I ask if they mind if I make sure it's not that the two-year-old set the house on fire. No. It's Significant Other. And I hear children's voices in the background. And I say, "Someone sick?" And I get, "No . . . we just couldn't get our sh*t together this morning, so school . . . it kind of didn't happen." Now, school either HAPPENS or it DOESN'T happen. It doesn't "kind of not happen." So my kids rack up a lot of truant dates when I travel (for the record, they are A students, so that is why the police don't show up--LOL!). They also aren't reminded to brush their teeth, shower, and it's possible the two-year-old will wear the same pajamas for four days. So, no, conventions aren't appealing.

But if I am honest with you all, the main reason they aren't appealing is elucidated in KARMELA JOHNSON'S blog post. Past the So You Think You Can Dance stuff (Go D-Trix!), she writes about this "controversy" that even Nora Roberts weighed in on. The short version is two cool authors decided to wear a funky "theme" to their clothes and were deemed "unprofessional" by Nora and others. There are blogs with 400 (!!!!) comments on these gals.

People, get over yourselves.

But that's not all. I have pals in publishing across many genres, and many publishers. And the backbiting over erotica, over e-pubbing, over all kinds of at the end of the day not that important stuff makes me insane.

I don't care. Yup, ure and simple, I don't care what someone chooses to wear. Those women could have shown up in bras and panties, and I wouldn't have cared. I think writers should have pink hair if they want (Erica waves to her most stupendous friend in the whole world who has had pink, purple, blue, red, and every shade and STILL kicks anyone's a** including mine when it comes to writing). I think people are self-important over this stuff. Who appointed anyone--best-selling author or not--high priestess of what a romance writer should wear or dress? It's like the ignorant people who think when they talk to my Mexican other half that he somehow speaks for ALL Mexicans on the immigration wars. No. He is ONE Mexican, just as no African-American can speak for his or her entire race, and no romance writer, no matter how she dresses, represents us all.

Get over it.

And I will repeat what I said on Karm's blog. When I worked in NYC in publishing in the 1980s, the most creative, wonderful people worked in the biz too. And the best of the best cover designers were these wild, fun guys, one of whom made his whole cube look like a lobster fisherman's boat--all the time, not for Halloween or anything. And the AIDS crisis hit. And it hits the arts--that us writers and artists--harder. And I BURIED a lot of friends. I had men I worked with alive one day, gorgeous and healthy. And dead two months later. Abandoned by most. That was when people were afraid to kiss guys with AIDS. People didn't want to share utensils. It was horrifying. I have plenty of HIV positive friends and we ALL remember that time. And I have had one or two of them well up when I kiss them, or let my baby kiss them. We remember those days.

Don't we all have more important things to do? To fret about? To put our voices behind? As people in the ARTS?

So at the end of the day--at the end of THIS day--I will have funky hair. And at the end of the day, that is why I don't go to conventions. I don't join the PTA. I just don't. Group think is narrow and petty, in my experience. People get caught up in being right. In pontificating. In proving they are somehow better than someone else. In defining US and THEM. For me, it isn't healthy to be around it.

So there you go . . . I KNOW there is so much more to the RWA, to conventions. I don't knock it for others--HONEST, I don't. It helps and guides and does some amazing things for writers. I know if I went, I would see SO MANY online pals and people I don't get to see often. I know all that. But at the end of the day, it's hard for me to listen to squabbles. I don't like the toxic nature of how things get overblown. Over nothing. Over two women who decided to wear funky thigh-highs.

So that's my half a cent.

PEACE,
E

Old Dog, New Tricks

I know I am always evolving as a writer. It's day in and day out, writing, critiquing, getting critiqued, reading, getting feedback from my agent and editor, and even more, I suppose, evolving as a human being and thus learning more about the world and human nature that allows me to add layers into my work.

But I always thought my process would remain the same. I hate outlines, and that remains to this day. It never feels organic when I write from one. I like the adventure of seeing what the writing day will bring. Like riding my bike without my hands on the handlebars. I like the breeze in my face. I like the freedom.

But . . . I used to be a true first-draft writer. Somehow, I always seemed to be in the zone, and would "nail" things the first time out. Scenes worked. I kept moving forward constantly, without looking back until the very end. However, even though here I am writing full-time for four years now, so you'd think it would be even MORE true, it is far less true.

Now, my process involves writing a chapter and getting the very, very basics of it down. There's no shorthand, no skipping any parts. There's dialogue and description, but I write fast and furious and get it down. It's skeletal, at best. Then I sleep on it. The next day, I go back and I CRAFT it. Cut words here or there, expand an awful lot, add description, but at the same time I tighten.

Then I sleep on it.

Then I go back again, and again. And sometimes even again. I add subtle details. I take out back story. I show instead of tell. This process doesn't take days. It might take a couple of hours. But it's definitely a lot more demanding than my old process. It's also definitely yielding stronger results.

I have no idea why it changed. But I have, indeed, changed the fundamental way I go through the process.

Old dog. New tricks.

How about you? Have you found yourself altering the way you write?

Meditation and Transcendence

Ever try to meditate with four kids in the house?

It's not for amateurs. They tell you to "observe" your mind--and as thoughts come, acknowledge them and then let them float away. This is more like my thoughts . . . .

Breathe in, exhale slowly. Breathe in--What the h*ll was that crash upstairs?--listen . . . no screaming . . . no one must need stitches or an ambulance--breathe in--but I wonder what WAS that crash?--exhale . . . or was it breathe in?--peace . . . exhale . . .--MOM!--Interrupt peaceful thoughts to scream--WHAT?--"The baby took off his diaper and is peeing on the floor!"--one minute--breathe, exhale, breathe--MOM! (this time said as two-syllable word)--COMING!

So much for meditation.

So more often than not, I pause BEFORE my day even begins. I read a spiritual passage in anything from the Bible to The Quotable Einstein to . . . the Dalai Lama to . . . and then I think about it. Then I pray. I remember all the people I promised to pray for, I think of my friends with loving kindness, I think of people I don't like very much with loving kindness, like my mother-in-law, and try to send good vibes to invade her Fortress of Evil And Wrath. And THEN, I think about my books. And my characters.

And somewhere along the way, I transcend. By that, I use the definition more closely associated with "beyond the range of ordinary perception."

Because in the books that really flow for me, that's what's involved with my characters. I have read many authors who dot the i's and cross the t's. But somehow, the author didn't make a connection with me as reader, and usually it boiled down to what I can only think of as an esoteric "the book didn't have any soul." It's sort of like jazz. There's jazz. And then there's Django Effing-Amazing-Transcendant Reinhardt.

So when my characters transcend, somehow they are beyond my ordinary dot the i's perception. They start living in some three-dimensional, quantum physics sphere where they LIVE and have a life of their own. They decide their own paths. I may tweak with the qanatum mechanics, but they react in that world.

And so, no . . . can I sit like Buddha above and meditate? Not so much.

But are my books a bit of meditation and transcendence?

I hope so.

Thoughts?

Tough But Fair

In remembering the late Joel Siegel, film critic for ABC, Steven Spielberg said that Siegel was tough but fair. I think for a film critic or a book reviewer, there is probably not higher praise.

Thinking back on the teachers who had the most influence on my life--they were all tough but fair. I had two teachers, though, who were incredibly tough on me--but not necessarily fair. When I asked one, a writing teacher, why, he said it was because I was a much better writer than my classmates and thus he could demand more of me. I was writing "A" work--for them. But I could do better. That gnawed at me. Was it FAIR? I don't think so, though I suppose in some existential way, some higher level of philosophy in grading, it was. He certainly made me a better writer. I recall him fondly.

The other teacher, immortalized as evil forever in High School Bites, was tough--and utterly unfair. She was nasty and mean. I suppose, in some sense, since she was uniformly rude, that all students were on her level, hideous playing field. So maybe she WAS fair. But I do NOT recall her fondly.

Now that I write books for a living, I can recall two reviewers who were not "fair." Though I think that sounds like a playground term. One was a developmental editor for a nonfiction book I wrote. She objected to my sense of humor in the way I write and said I clearly wrote by the seat of my pants. Nothing could have been further from the truth. My co-author was and is completely anal-retentive, and thus we had spreadsheets and flowcharts and thousands of pages of research. We could just write "funny." What I object most was her INFERENCE that people who are funny don't take their writing seriously. She cast aspersions on my work ethic. That was unfair. And basically I was, from that point on, the classic "difficult" author because I felt she was impossible to work with. That she was unfair.

Another book reviewer had sort of the same inference. It is not fair, to me, for reviewers to somehow infer whether a writer skated, or was lazy in a book, or any other such personal attribute. The work stands. Review the work.

But fair reviewers? Even if they don't like what you write, they can give you cogent reasons. It is why I TREASURE my writers' group. I don't get lauded each time. They hold my feet to the fire. But they are fair. Last week, BOTH of my critique partners questioned something having to do with a cop and his behavior. They are right. It will be changed in rewrites this week. They said good things, too--and I value that even more because I earned it from two tough critics.

Thoughts?

The Muse Is a Two-Year-Old Who's Had Coffee

For a while, my muse was nowhere to be found. I have never had "writer's block." I know there are movies (like Adaptation) that hilariously depict writer's block, but in my life, that has never (knock wood) happened. Instead, I have had periods--this last one being only perhaps the third time in my life--in which the writing has felt listless. I didn't have the heart for it. I was weary in my personal life, and it drifted through to my writing life. It wasn't that I couldn't write, but my output slowed.

Then the muse returned--about three weeks ago, I guess. I was sleeping better. I felt a little better. Whatever "it" was, it lifted.

That was fine . . . the muse was back, I was writing and in the groove.

Then the muse started drinking coffee--pots of it. I don't know where she got her hands on the coffee, since I gave it up, but . . . she wasn't just here in my life, she was here and practically taking over. Thus I decided the muse was rather like my toddler, who at this moment is lying on the kitchen floor next to my office having a tantrum because I will not let him have a cookie at 7:00 a.m. The muse is like that.

What is this experience like? It's insanity . . . the muse wants to be fed--NOW. She wants me at this computer--NOW. And she wants me staying up late, and getting up early to tend to her needs--NOW.

I am glad she is back. I won't knock it. She came up with THE MOST SPECTACULAR concept last night. But man . . . it would be nice if she laid off the coffee and the sugar rush so life with her was a little more normal.

People who aren't writers ask me all the time what being a writer is like. "How do you come up with ideas?"

I can't always explain the process. But this post is pretty much what it's like.

I have a muse. Her name is Taz!

My Kind of Man

So my baby (age 2) wanted his toes painted red like mine. So I did. I mean, no big deal, right? He doesn't "get" that, typically, unless you are a drag queen or a trannie, men in our culture don't paint their nails.

Well . . . you would have thought I had brought him to a Satanic cult and sold his soul to Lucifer from the reactions of some people (who shall remain nameless for the sake of this blog). Me, I didn't get the uproar. I occasionally slap lipstick on him so he can kiss me and leave red marks. He thinks it's funny. He also, for the record, can hurl a baseball astoundingly well for a toddler, likes to watch Monster Truck Jam (and the fact that I, who has sought to expose my children to the ARTS above all else except faith, would have a child who likes to watch the Grave Digger run over other cars is particularly ironic), and digs Spiderman.

But such are the roles that people seem to set aside for gender. When I write my Nocturnes, I struggle a bit because the heroes are supposed to be Alpha. And frankly, not only do I like Betas . . . but I dig guys who are secure enough to wear an apron or one who will let his little daughter paint his nails.

I don't know if that makes me weird. I'm so different in so many areas of my life, I guess one more doesn't matter. But I do find myself having to work a bit, sometimes, to create characters that stick with the expectations of readers. My characters always seem a bit weird around the edges.

Anyone else struggle with the so-called Alpha in their wip? With reconciling weirdness?

Just When You Think . . .

I am working on a proposal that opens as a woman packs for a funeral--but it's a funny scene. And from that point, her life gets worse until it's all she can do but throw up her hands and laugh.

That's I guess how I view life's calamities. True story . . . I was driving home from my job way back when I was an editor. It was pouring--I mean blinding sheets of rain. And I had my child in the car. She was 3. I pressed down on my brakes, and my foot went to the floor. Quick! I ran through my brain all those Shell programs on what you should do in a car emergency. Pump the brake. I did. Nothing. I was careening down the rain-slicked highway with NO brakes. None. Zip. Nothing. So I put on my hazards and stopped touching the gas pedal so I would slow down. I remembered something from that show about, if you have to, side-swipe something, rather than hit it head on. Up ahead, I saw a traffic light. It turned red, meaning I was about to go through it--and into four lanes of traffic. I looked to my left at the guardrail. Then I pulled my emergency brake. It slowed me down--some. Not to a standstill. I kept rolling. But eventually, impossibly, I rolled to a stop. I put the car in park and turned off the engine.

But because this occurred in the Land of Road Rage--South Florida--I was beeped at. It was about six at night, maybe 6:30, and it was dark--winter. People gave me the finger, with my car hazards on--like I had decided I would park there with my hazards on for the fun of it. I decided staying in the car was not wise. My daughter and I might get hit. So I waited until there was no traffic. I popped my hood so people would realize it was a disabled vehicle. I got out, and grabbed my daughter. I mentioned it was POURING. Hurricane-like pouring.

This was pre-cellphones. I mean, they existed, but they weren't common. So now I faced walking to a phone to call my dad to come get me. So I walked, in the pouring rain, holding my cold, shivering daughter, to a gas station. I asked the man to use their phone. I pointed to my car down the street. But just when I thought my night couldn't get worse . . .

He told me to f*ck off. No phone.

I begged him to use the phone. He told me no. He laughed at me. I held up my toddler to the window. "Give me a friggin' break, man. I have a baby in the rain." Nope.

So I found a payphone (brief aside, my father threatened the attendant's life when he came to get me, and I wrote to the owner of the station the next day and got the attendant fired) up the road. And I was rescued from the rain.

But in the story, there is a lesson. Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. Until, in all seriousness, it became FUNNY. Of COURSE the attendant would be an a**hole. Of COURSE, I would have to go back out into a storm with my child to go to another payphone. Because that is sometimes the dark humor of the universe. When you think it can't get worse, it will. And then you will laugh, because it will reach this existential limit beyond which . . . you have to laugh.

Another true story. When I was first really sick with Crohn's disease, I kept getting sicker and sicker and sicker. My eyesight started failing from medications I was on. I ended up not able to walk because of medications I was on. And then they wanted me to go on chemotherapy. And in this whole mess, the idea that would now lose my hair was suddenly funny. And I decided I wouldn't wear a wig. I'd go for the scarf look. I decided the scarf would be my big middle finger to the gods. Like, you may THINK you got me down, but you didn't.

And I found it all funny, in a way.

So now, when I write humor . . . I "go there." You know how some people say, "Don't even go there"? No. GO THERE. That is the lesson I took from it. Life is absurd. It is never more absurd than in darkness and sadness, and in that absurdity, you can find humor. So that's how I write. I go there. And I laugh.

And you?

Palpable

I was once at a Bar Mitzvah. I was seven months pregnant with Baby #4, and my stomach was OUT TO HERE. I mean OUT TO HERE, people. But the DJ played good music, and there is no way I can attend a wedding or event of ANY sort where music is playing and NOT hit the dance floor. So I got out there with my significant other and danced until, thanks to the baby, I thought I might go into labor, after which I sat out a few songs. (But did go back!)

So then two ladies came up to me. "When is your baby due?" one asked. I told them. "Is this your first?" asked the other. "No, fourth." That usually stuns people. Then, one of them said, "You know, no wonder you keep having babies. Your partner on the dance floor is an amazing dancer. Very hot. There's definitely something between you two. Something palpable."

Now, part of this is he happens to be Mexican, and if there is the tiniest bit of something to stereotypes . . . Latin people can dance. We lived next door to a Latin family and they used to move all the furniture out of the house for parties and we would all dance in the living room like crazy people. And if the adage is true that white men can't dance . . . I can tell you, at least the Latin men I know can. I am waiting to see if my two sons inherited that gene. I think the youngest one definitely has it. The other one? Not so much.

But maybe that's just bull. The whole idea of Latin men and dance. But the "palpable" comment? There's something to it. I once knew a psychotherapist who swore he could tell if couples would stay married by how they danced with each other.

Well, it got me thinking. This palpable thing. I have a work in progress that was not supposed to have a love interest. It's a darker piece of fiction, and there was no romance, no anything. My heroine was supposed to solve the mystery embedded in the book by herself.

But in chapter two a detective shows up. And next thing I know, she's off to the mountains where his grandfather is a preacher, searching for a clue. And there is no romance yet. But it's THERE, something palpable. When they talk, he probes. When she asks him something, she studies him. There's something there.

Oddly enough, it's sort of an accident. Like when two people meet for the first time. I didn't intend it at all. But's it's there. The cadence and rhythm of his speech, and her way of answering . . . they simply fit together in some way that I haven't quite figured out yet.

Palpable.

Do you "see" that in your characters? In real life?

Phone Home

Kathy pondered here yesterday why do some fave authors seem to "phone it in" (my phrase) after a while. We all know big household names that, after a while, their books just don't hold up anymore. I suppose because they are such big names, we can rattle off a few that I hear this about commonly--Anne Rice (after the first two or three vamp books . . .), James Patterson, fill-in-the-blank.

But household names aren't the only ones that seem to phone it in. I know plenty of mid-list authors with many, many titles and their most loyal fans have given up on them. Why?

I don't have all the answers. But a few thoughts . . . I do notice the new trend of people like Patterson taking on a co-author. The co-author does all the writing, the name guy has the big letters on the cover. I could think of a half-dozen BIG names that now do this. The name thinks of the idea. The lesser-known writer writes it. In Patterson's case, he says he is giving upcoming writers a chance. I would like to take that sentiment at face value, but I know I sometimes wonder. And in Patterson's case, he CAN write. He just now takes on an assistant, if you will.

I do NOT like this trend. True story . . . I was aproached about doing this. Household name. Wanted a ghost. I see household name on Court TV and other shows, and his books aren't well-reviewed. He never COULD write (unlike some others who do this). He just has a name and a career on the front pages. And the ideas. To me, if you are a writer . . . write every word. Anything less is a cop-out. No one can take my idea and craft it the way I would. Some people just use this sort of trend to, basically, either take a check to the bank. Or to stroke their ego. Some it may well be wanting to pull in a friend (or a son, as in Clive Cussler's case.)

Sometimes, there is a disconnect between editor and author. Sometimes, to be honest, in miniseries, it's not the author's idea, but the house's, and sometimes an author can adapt to the storyline, sometimes not. I know plenty of great authors whose miniseries books aren't so great (in fans' opinions). But it's hard to be handed a concept and be told "do it this way." There are story "bibles" for the miniseries, and elements that HAVE to be there. It's a less organic process.

Sometimes, and I have been told this by more than one editor, the author just doesn't stretch his or her wings. They mine the same storyline and insert new characters. The flipside is you can have people like me who write across many genres. This is generally not done, and I know I break convention by doing it, but the simple fact is I have a lot of different interests and I love writing across different genres. However, a fan who likes you in one genre, may loathe you in another.

And therein, is the other aspect. No one, and I promise you no one, sets out to write a "bad book." I suppose some authors we love them so much that we project a little of that love onto them, and when they disappoint, we ourselves feel irritated. I know I have had people actually write to me with the following scenarios: "I loved SPANISH DISCO, but then I bought DIARY OF A BLUES GODDESS and I didn't feel the same way about it." Only to get the next email, "I have never reacted to a book the way I did DIARY OF A BLUES GODDESS. I cried happy tears at the end. I will never forget it. You know, I read SPANISH DISCO and I thought it was okay, so I decided to try this one. WOW! You are really growing as a writer." Or this one, "I bought MAFIA CHIC. You have a lot of nerve passing this off as an Italian family. NO ITALIAN GIRL WOULD EVER talk to her male cousin about sex." (Swear, I got that response!!!!!). Or, "I loved MAFIA CHIC so much. It reminded me of my own big, Italian family exactly. Loved it. Can you write a sequel?"

It's enough to make an author's head spin. But you see what I mean? I didn't "phone in" any of those books . . . BUT . . . when you love a book so much, you project something both onto the book and the author. Sometimes the author lives up to what it is you loved. Sometimes not.

Thoughts?

Romantic Notions

Yesterday, I stumbled on a blogger who was convinced I wrote "the worst book ever." Doesn't matter who it was, or even which book of mine it was . . . but that is one of the things they don't tell you about being an author before you are published. There are going to be people who like your work, and people who don't. And the ones who don't are often going to be a lot noisier about it. This is why I don't Google myself and don't, generally, read reviews, good or bad. Now I may have to stop blog-hopping.

But at its root, I realized this woman, and the commenter who ran off to the races with the post, hated the idea of love at first sight. They didn't believe in it. At all.

And therein, when writing romance--or even when putting a romantic element into another genre--is one difference between us all. Some of us believe in it, some don't. That same book, I have received emails from readers who were swept away by the story. I guess they DO believe in it.

When I wrote The Roofer, I had one reviewer write a scathing review for one of those online romance sites. Except the book is not a romance . . . and . . . when you went through the reviewer's bio on the site, you can read she "despises" heroines who are sexually experienced. Considering at its root, the character of Ava is a gritty, abused woman who uses her sexuality to try to get what she wants out of desperation, what are the chances that reviewer would root for her? Apprently nil.

But whereas thrillers seem to sometimes garner a reaction like "far-fetched" and people may point out plot holes, romantic notions are things people hold dear. So sometimes even when reviewing, I see a passion in people's reaction, good or bad.

Soul mates, love at first sight . . . if I was going to gauge it by my own life . . . no, I don't know that I believe in those things at all. But I would LIKE to believe in them, so they are part of my romantic notions. Do I believe one person can save another? In The Roofer, Ava couldn't save the person closest to her, but she was lifted from her circumstances--so yes and no. In Spanish Disco, Cassie had a soul mate. So did Roland. In Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven, Lily's soul mate was a gay man. Actually, if I went by my real life, THAT would be the typical story. Swear.

Right now, my idea of romance would include finding a man who isn't afraid to ask for directions, who will change the toilet paper on the roll, let me sleep in while HE gets up with the baby, and actually do laundry, not drop his underwear wherever he is standing. But that doesn't make for good fiction, so until then, I guess I have some romantic notions.

And you?

Creature Comforts

On another author loop, a writer remarked that we seem to, collectively, own a LOT of cats and dogs. In thinking about it . . . that seems to be true. And in thinking about it more, I guess it's company for us solitary souls who write for a living.

I have a corgi. He looks like the one at left, only he is MUCH, MUCH fatter, much to my and his vet's dismay. He is like a corgi on prednisone. I also have two mutt puppies--adorable and a little crazy. And as a writer, no, I do not talk to them. Occasionally, I mutter to them in frustration, but I do like to write late at night with Chubby Dog snoring on the rug in my office. Actually, Chubby is named Chip. The other two are Cosmo and Dreamer.

I also have a pet python. He is actually my older son's pet, and I am not friends with Lydia (the snake). As a Buddhist, Lydia's preferred food choice of live rat pups really makes me squeamish and upsets me. But my son really loves Lydia, so . . . she is there in a tank in his room and I avoid her.

I also have a parrot. She is a cockatoo, actually, and she talks. She tells me she loves me all the time. This is nice because when I spend a lot of time alone, I start to wonder if anyone loves me. She confirms there is at least one bird on the planet who does.

Then there is Blossom. I talk to her. She is a Beta fish and sits on my desk. She sometimes mocks me when I don't have any good ideas, but she is usually supportive. She is full of wisdom.

Out on my porch, I have Zen, my canary. Love Zen! He sings sometimes. He is getting old for a canary . . . and I worry about Old Zen. I talk to him a lot. He knows ALL my problems.

And so that's my creature comfort. I do like the company. I love caring for them all. And I know, yes, as Americans, we own a lot of pets. But writers . . . well, we seem to have more than most.

So tell me about your pets if you have any.

Peace,
E